


The Horror of Half-Jack

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: creepy shit happening, evil ventriloquist dummy, howard pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:30:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2881265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard buys a strange doll at a curio shop. Now Vince is worried about how he's acting, but is it Howard, or is it the doll?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

All of it, the whole mess wouldn't have started if Vince could have laid off for five fucking seconds. They were sent in as spies to a rival curio shop that had sprung up like a toadstool down the street from the Nabootique(“—and see if they've got Peruvian Tarantula Juice, yeah?”) and in order to provide an air of authenticity, Vince had been not-so-subtly riffing on Howard the entire time.

“ _Be the life of the party_!” he crowed, reading off the tag of one droll device, “ _Amaze your friends_! Boy, Howard, you could use this one, couldn't you? Make Lester roll right off his skateboard.”

Howard grunted, pretending to compare hookah prices. The shopkeeper, an American, was creepy and familiar in an unsettling way.

“Oooh, look at this, he's got owl beaks!”

Not as if they'd met, but Howard knew someone who looked like him. A relative?

“'Course, how would you even know you need owl beaks?”

Howard stiffened. A hot wave of embarrassment crested his spine. His face was instantly red.

“Want to keep your voice down?” he hissed. Vince smirked, like it was all very good fun.

“They've also got some love potions, it looks like, although I probably shouldn't tell you that. You'd use them on me, you're so desperate.”

Howard had caught hold of something soft, now he squeezed it.

“Vince,” he murmured, “please, please, please stop talking.”

“I mean look at you now, you're giving me the rape eyes as we speak.” Vince tossed the price tag of an ornate bottle down and shrugged. “I'll be over there in the 45s if you need me. And I mean that in a completely platonic way,” he called over his shoulder.

Howard stood, because every muscle in his body had locked. He wanted to die. He wanted to crisp up in a sudden gout of flame and blow away as cinders on the wind.

“Are you going to buy that?” a nasal voice said behind him.

Howard jumped, pulling the thing he had a death grip on with him. It clattered.

“I'm not running a petting zoo,” the man, whose nametag read 'Wilbur' sniveled. "At least... not anymore." He leered at Howard.

“Sorry,” Howard managed, bringing up the object, “I'm not—”

The thing he had grabbed without seeing was a doll. A ventriloquist's doll.

A dull shudder cut through Howard. Dear Tolstoy, was there anything creepier? It was made of walnut and dressed like a 1930's dapper pimp. It even had little patent-leather shoes on the feet. The suit was creamy white and spotless, and jewelry gleamed from its little hand. The eyes rolled sightlessly in the head, glossy black and secretive.

“You want to try it?”

Howard said “yeah” before he realized it. As he was forming objections, the shopkeeper took it and, with disturbing tenderness, opened up its back.

“Just slide right in,” he goaded.

Howard swallowed down his many misgivings and obeyed.

“There's levers in there,” the shopkeeper advised, “you pull on them to make it move.”

Howard found one, pulled it, and the doll winked. It surprised a laugh out of him.

“That's _clever_ ,” he said. The shopkeeper smiled.

“Go ahead. Try it out.”

Howard hefted it. It was a bit heavy, so he sat it on his stationary forearm. It took some doing but finally he got to where he could pull a lever without worrying if it would fall over backwards. The doll raised and lowered its eyebrows, winked, and silently flapped its jaw. Howard didn't realize how engrossed he was until Vince came strolling over.

“Oi, Howard, are you almost—” He did a double take. “What the hell is that?”

The shopkeeper answered before Howard could: “Half-Jack. Once the best dummy on the sunset strip.”

Vince wrinkled his nose. “Yeah? That is well creepy.” He turned. “Come on Howard, let's go.”

“Yes,” Howard said, “oh, um. Yes. How much?”

Vince stopped. Turned. Stared in disbelief. “What?”

The shopkeeper looked quietly triumphant. “Ten euros.”

“Ten? That's so cheap.” Howard covered his mouth. He hadn't meant to blurt that out. Now the weirdo would probably up the price. But whatever stock this shopkeeper was cut from, he stayed firm.

“He's also got a little kit,” he said, turning to slide his body behind the counter.

Vince looked back and forth between Howard and the shopkeeper. “You have got to be joking.”

“Vince,” Howard said tightly, “don't you have something to take care of? Something to report?”

Vince ground his toe in the floor. He had a white cowboy hat on, he ducked so that it hid his eyes. “You're really buying that thing?”

Howard hesitated. “Well—”

“Because if you are, I am sleeping on the couch from now on. I'm not having that thing in the same room as me with my eyes closed, thank you.”

“Yes,” Howard said briskly, “right.” He turned to the counter. “See you at home.”

As Vince huffed out Howard said “kids” to the shopkeeper in a conspiratorial tone.

“Tell me about it.” The little man grimaced. “I have a good-for-nothing brother who actually got our mother to believe he was killed in Vietnam.” He took out a little cape and cane.

“This is the last work of a master dollmaker, before he went senile and tried to ride a juggernaut like a bicycle,” the shopkeeper said, “carved from the wood of a popular lynching tree that was struck down by lightning. The cloth of his suit came from the Triangle-Shirtwaist factory before its big fire. The shoes on its feet are leather from Topsy, the elephant that Edison publicly executed. And his eyes are 37% asbestos.”

Howard blinked. “Right...so...that's a doll with quite a history then?”

“Let me put it this way: did you ever see the 1978 movie _Magic_?”

“No.”

“Then this should aaaaall be new to you.”

 

As Howard walked in the Nabootique door with a box draped in velvet, he was met with snorts and rolled eyes.

“I sent you over there to spy,” Naboo lisped, “not give money to my competition.”

Howard was shy of the box, hiding it slightly behind him. “It wasn't much,” he protested.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Vince said, as if he wasn't even there, “I've seen it. Creepy beyond belief. I don't think he's going to be open long.”

Howard looked at the floor.

“Whatever.” Naboo nudged Bollo. “Hey Bollo, we've got a bag of Disco Cosmonaut with our name on it.”

As the dwarf and the ape trooped upstairs to trip off their tits Howard asked, “is that the name of a marijuana strain or are they actually going to smoke a dead cosmonaut's ashes?”

Vince lifted a shoulder. He was engrossed in _Cheekbone,_ which touted ostrich plumes as this afternoon's _fête._

“Fine,” Howard said, “I'm going to our room.”

“Don't put that anywhere near my bed,” Vince called after him.

Howard tripped up the stairs, face red. He didn't know why, but their attitudes were especially grating this afternoon. Maybe it was partially shame over his purchase. He knew it was weird, he knew it was ridiculous and creepy.

That was why he had to have it. Someone had to care for the little guy.

Howard got ventriloquism books at (long-suffering sigh) another of Naboo's competitors. He practiced speaking with a pencil in his mouth, and practiced working the dummy's levers. It was harder than it looked, a real rub-your-tummy-pat-your-head exercise. And the lip movements were hard to exorcize. P's and b's were right out, along with m's, n's and w's. Howard practiced on nights when Vince went out, because of a horrible evening when he'd thought Vince was choking to death, only to find that what came out after the heimlich was not the bootlaces he'd been slurping down by the pound but bouts of pained laughter.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen,” Howard grimaced in the mirror, “hel-lo la-dies and gen-tel-men. Howdy, ladles and jellyspoons.” He worked his lips. “how is everybody?” His lips moved. _“Everybody.”_ He tried again. _“Everyguddy.”_

He picked up the dummy and sat it on his lap. He had been saving the dress rehearsal, wanting to get really good before testing it out.

“He-lo ev-ry-gud-dy,” the doll chewed, “where-ya-from?” It waggled its eyebrows. Howard laughed a little.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Vince read a magazine, but didn't really read a magazine. Howard was up in their room, talking, laughing to himself. Vince was the simpleton, it was worrying that Howard could amuse himself so easily with a piece of wood. And a creepy piece of wood at that. Vince shuddered.

Howard came into the kitchen whistling, put the kettle on, and started toast.

“Morning,” he said loftily. His confidence certainly seemed on the upswing.

“Alright,” Vince said. No, it was not alright, not really, but Howard nodded. He was preoccupied with breakfast, meticulously buttering toast and applying various jams. This usually meant he had something big on his mind that he wanted to casually work into conversation. Well, Vince could handle it, whatever it was.

“Got a gig at the Velvet Onion,” Howard said nonchalantly as he stirred his cup.

Vince spat a little tea out. “What? Howard, that's amazing! I thought they'd never let us in after the crab massacre! Have they replaced the carpeting already?”

Howard coughed into his hand. “Actually, Vince...it's me.”

“What's you?”

“It's just me. I...auditioned for a solo show.”

“What, why? How?”Vince set his cup down with a bang. “You're not frontman material, you don't know how to dress, you can't even pull shapes, you're...” A horrible thought came to him. “ _No._ ”

“I've gotten really good,” Howard said to the counter, “I can even do w's now.”

“Howard, you can't get up there in front of all those people and embarrass yourself,” Vince said, “it's Camden. They'll eat you alive.”

Howard's neck pulsed as he swallowed. “Well, thank you for that vote of confidence, my good friend. I'll be going to vomit now, and then I'm going to practice more.”

As he ran like a horse on two legs, Vince hid his head in his hands. He knew when he saw it that the doll was bad news. Hadn’t Howard ever seen _Twilight Zone_? And it _was_ true, they would eviscerate him onstage. And then Howard would be inconsolable for weeks, and Vince would probably have to route a few dramatic suicide attempts. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

When Vince took a seat in the audience that night, he took a look around. They _had_ replaced the carpeting. There was a different crowd tonight, too, mostly geezers like Howard. And none of them looked armed with rotten vegetables, though Vince wasn't willing to rule anything out just yet.

First off was a set of conjoined twins who played the accordion, and then Priapus, London's first x-rated magician. Then Howard was on. As the people in the front rows dried off, Howard took a seat. He had dressed in a suit with leather patches at the elbow like a geography teacher. His regular porkpie forsaken, Howard's naked hair gleamed with the pomade that had been used to part it on the extreme left. And yes, he was wearing a bowtie. He looked so alone and vulnerable on the stage that Vince wanted to dive-tackle him into the curtain. He had no business being onstage alone, and especially no business being alone with that doll, which began to move with frightening conviction.

“Hey,” Howard said in a cracked voice, “where ya from?”

Someone coughed.

“I'm from Leeds,” Howard said.

The doll turned to the audience. “That's up north for you Londoners. You know, that big blotch on the map that encompasses Scotland and the Arctic?”

The thing had a voice like Bugs Bunny with a sore throat. The joke got a laugh and Vince relaxed a bit. Maybe it would be okay.

“I really don't know what he's doing here,” the doll told the audience, “in one of the trendiest places on earth. His favorite color is plaid, _forchrissakes_!”

That got a bigger laugh.

“Come on now,” Howard said, grinning eerily, “I don't buffet about on the winds of fashion, there's a simple truth to me.”

“Yeah, don't wear corduroy while pregnant, this is what you'll get.”

More laughs and some light applause.

“Thank you, thank you,” Howard said, “I’m reminded of some words of wisdom from Charlie Parker—”

“'S _hoot it between my toes, Javier, they've started checking my arms for tracks_.'”

People gasped with laughter.

In fact, the whole set was a minor hit. Vince was almost sorry to slip away before it was all over, but he wanted to get home before Howard.

He was doodling on a piece of bristol board when Howard came in the front door.

“Hi.” He stood in the doorway like a great northern stork. “See the show?”

Howard had a very fragile sense of success, even though he had gotten over the chokes some time ago. If he knew Vince was in the audience, watching, judging him, he might never go onstage again.

Vince shrugged and said, “Sorry mate.”

Howard didn't move. “Oh. Well, it was a hit.”

“I'm sure it was.”

“I've been asked back.”

“Happy for you.”

“You needn't be jealous.”

Vince laughed a little. “Look, you did well. Great. Don't go running off like it's the fucking Pieface Showcase, okay?”

Howard blinked. “Fine,” he said, a little huskily. He went to shut himself in the room again. Vince ran an angry hand through his hair. He had started out drawing a carousel horse, but the pen had bled, and now there was a fuzzy black halo all around it. Vince raveled it up and threw it away.

 

“I think we were good,” Howard said brightly. He sat on the edge of his bed in his shorts, dummy on his lap.

“We were great, kid,” Half-Jack said, “no question about it.” He pronounced it ' _agout_.'

“We were. They really liked us.”

“So what's to say? You want me to pull you off?”

“I was good,” Howard said heavily. And then: “Vince didn't see.”

“Who? The little lady in the livingroom? Got no taste.”

“He's my best friend.”

“Like I said, no taste. Anyway, we're not doing it for him, we're doing it for you.”

Howard looked up at the dummy and smiled. It smiled back, for its faced was permanently carved to do so.

“We are, aren't we? He asked.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Vince wasn't jealous, not exactly. Howard was succeeding on his own, in something he was apparently very good at. Great. He was over the fucking moon for the big northern berk. But now whenever he wanted to be alone with Howard, Half-Jack was there.

Just the fact that it had a name was well creepy. Why go to all the trouble to dress it up and give it a name like it was a real person? The worst part abut it was that sometimes you forgot it wasn't a real person. Worse, you forgot it was just Howard.

Vince stumbled in after a night at the Neon Stingray to find Howard and Jack engaged in heavy conversation.

“...I'm not saying _Bitch's Brew_ was his best, just close to.”

“I'm telling you _Kind of Blue_ blows everything else out of the water.”

“That's just the most popular album.”

“Oh, so 'cause it's popular it ain't good?”

The bird Vince was with(her name was a color. Magenta? Puce?) wobbled over to the couch.

“Vince, is this your flatmate? Is he insane?” She sat on the arm of the sofa and almost missed. “Gawd, loonies are the most _interesting_ people.”

Howard looked typically petrified, but the doll didn't miss a beat.

“Howya doin' doll?” It made a little bow that actually looked quite complicated. “Name's Half-Jack. Who might you be?”

The girl giggled lustily. “Cyan. Hey, can you drink a glass of water while he sings?”

“Sure,” Half-Jack said, “but you'll have to pay for my dry-cleaning bills.”

Cyan laughed, snorting sonorously. God, she'd been much more attractive in the club. Maybe it was the alcopops, which were rapidly wearing off. Vince grabbed her arm.

“Let's go.”

Cyan shrugged him off. “Don't be a toff. I'm having fun with Jackie and—”

“Howard,” said Howard.

“—Harold. Don't you paw me.”

“I'll paw you, if you like,” the puppet said, “the name ain't Jackie, it's Half-Jack. Two words, one hyphen. Much like yourself.”

The girl brayed laughter again, though Vince doubted she understood it. He caught her shoulders as she went over backwards, high heels kicking helplessly in the air. One stiletto caught Half-Jack just above the eyebrow, sapping the dummy' head back.

“Ow,” he said. “That hurt, ya dumb broad.”

Howard looked shocked, holding a hand to his brow as if he'd been the one hit.

Cyan could not see the danger she was sailing into, or even the floor, probably. Vince tried to tactfully steer her to the door. He wasn't getting any tonight, but he would settle for a night without nightmares. Cyan twisted out of his grasp.

“Do something,” she whined, “do a trick.”

The dummy raised an eyebrow. “Wanna see something? Come closer.”

Vince cleared his throat. “I don't think that's such a great idea.”

Howard's face was unreadable.

“Come _ooon_ ,” Cyan pressed, “a lovely little trick for me.”

The dummy waggled his eyebrows. “Sure. Yoooooou asked for it.”

Cyan put her face down so that she was nose and nose with the dummy. Howard was sweating.

“See? Nothing up my sleeve.” The dummy rolled its eyes. “Abra-ca-doo, Abra-ca-dee, Abra-ca- _bitch_!”

The little wooden hand caught her on the jaw and Cyan went down. Howard looked petrified. Vince couldn't will his body to move. Cyan let out a yelp and put her hand to her face.

“You berk,” she said irritably to Howard, “you hit me.”

“No I didn't,” Howard said helplessly.

Cyan hefted to her feet, and Vince appeared behind her to steer her to the door. He whispered sweet nothings in his ear as he watched Howard on the couch. Howard seemed genuinely upset. When Vince came back from calling her a cab, Howard had stripped the dummy from his hand and sat cradling his arm.

“I didn't do it, Vince, you have to believe me, really,” Howard begged.

Vince paced. “Howard, where do we live? I just had to shoo an ifrit out of the marmalade last week. Of course I believe you didn't do it. That thing's clearly fucking cursed, and you're getting rid of it like yesterday.”

And Howard hesitated. Something gleamed in his eye.

“Now let's talk about this,” he said.

Vince stopped. “Are you mental?”

Howard cleared his throat. “That's the first time he's really acted up. Really, he's quite sweet on his own, I think your friends just bring out the worst in him.”

Vince shook his head. “You've gone wrong.”

Howard sighed. “No, I've gone right. I'm good at something for once, and all by myself.”

“Why should that matter?” Vince asked. Howard paused.

“Now, don't take this the wrong way—”

“What way am I supposed to take it? Are you bored of me? Tired of babysitting? And what the hell do you mean ' _finally good at something_ '? You're a multi-instrumentalist! You've written too many songs to count! And you published that coffee table book of jazz musicians' favorite ties! Alright, self-published, but my point still stands—”

“People actually like me when I do this,” Howard said quietly.

Vince swallowed. He had no reply.

“Don't stay up too long,” he said finally. He turned and raced to bed, and slept with the covers over his head the whole night.

 

“Think I might look up that one shop,” he said with feigned casualness to Naboo the next morning, “check out the competition again.”

Naboo was unscrambling words on the back of a Xooberon Puffs box. “Good luck. It moved away a week ago.”

Vince's blood turned to icewater. “Yeah?”

“Turns out it's hard to open a shop in a neighborhood already being serviced,” Naboo said, “also, someone threw breeze blocks through the shop window.”

“Bollo blame today's schools.”

Vince lost all pretext of cool.

“Okay,” he gabbed, “Howard's being possessed by that freaky doll and we've got to get it off him before it kills someone.”

Neither reacted.

“Called it,” Naboo said in monotone. Bollo reached into his apron pocket and pulled out a fiver.

“Guys, can you take this seriously, please? This is Howard. You have any idea how terrifying it would be if he were possessed?”

The two exchanged looks.

“Howard creepy enough already,” Bollo said.

“Yeah? You never starved on a desert island with him. Look, you're got to have some lotions or some potions to deal with this sort of thing.”

Naboo shook his head sadly. “Never got certified for that. I'm only allowed to carry tinctures, unguents curios, and serve alcohol to the public.”

“Then you must know someone who does.”

Naboo nodded. “There's a shamanesss who specializes in this sort of thing. Ella Fitzherbert. Lives on Kingston. You know that big trash pile?”

“Right, so which side of the street does she live on?”

“Actually she lives _in_ the trash pile.”

Vince sighed. “Alright. Give me the address.”

 

“Your mother always chased after bin men,” Half-Jack cackled, “you musta been born in an old egg carton.”

That got a laugh. Howard didn't know why, had never known what people would find funny, but he was glad.

“'course, with a face like that, there's precious little else you coulda done. It was either this or stand outside a club and let them pitch pennies at you.”

He was glad. He was.

“And lemme talk about that shirt. Do you gots some condition where you can only see in shades of brown? I've seen toads with better taste in mud.”

He was glad, he was glad, he was—


	4. Chapter 4

With his collar raised and his guard up against any urban foxes he might happen to meet, Vince picked his way through the trash pile.

“Hullo? Ella?” he called.

There was a patch of something moving. Bright, intricate fabrics, chintz and batik and paisley all draped over a squat figure.

“You here about the Victrola?” the accent was hard to place.

“No, I’m here about my friend.”

“Is he a Victrola?” some cloth slipped down, and Vince caught sight of an ageless face, walnut brown and of androgynous beauty.

“No, he's a people.” Vince cleared his throat. “Person. Man. He's possessed.”

The figure sighed a knowing sigh. “I'll put some tea on.”

 

Howard coughed. “Hey, where ya from?”

The audience waited in silent anticipation.

“You open every gig like that. Why dontcha tell us where _you're_ from.”

Howard smiled. The lights were bright. Bright and too hot.

“From Leeds. You know...up north.”

“Great story,” Half-Jack said, “like a boiled egg. Short and pointless.”

The audience laughed until they choked. They laughed even harder when Howard reached for his glass of water and the dummy slapped it away, making it fall and shatter.

“Now see what you did,” Half-Jack snarled. They were howling.

 

Ella suspended a water bottle over a small fire. “I saw this on Survivorman.”

“Neat,” Vince said, because he felt he should say something. Inside, Ella's garbage cave was wallpapered with more bright fabrics that made his fingers itch. If he had to visit a mad little shaman, he was glad it was one with some taste.

Ella took a seat on an upturned wheelbarrow. “What is the nature of your complaint?”

“My friend bought this doll, you see. And it's made everything weird.”

“So his personality has changed?”

“What? No, actually. If anything, he's _even...more_ him.”

“Oh, so he's behaving erratically?”

“No...well, behaving erratically is kind of par for the course with him.”

“But his social life has suffered?”

“...Actually he's quite successful right now.”

Ella looked at him. “I hope you have more than that to go on.”

Vince pulled at his hair. “I do, okay? It's not healthy. Howard's happy, but in a sad way. It's hard to describe.”

“Try.” Ella poured steaming liquid into a tuna tin. Vince held it in his hand and tried to smile politely.

“He's gone all secretive. I mean, he's always been secretive because he's afraid we'll laugh at him...and, well, we _do_ , but he's really extra paranoid. And the dummy's taken on a personality of its own, real Chucky stuff.”

“So it's become violent?”

“He hit a woman, and he's never...okay there was that one time, but it didn't quite count—” Vince growled. “You keep on asking the wrong questions! No it's not violent, but it's... _mean_.”

“And your friend is not mean?”

“No,” Vince said after a long time, “not like this.”

Ella sighed. “Drink your tea.”

Vince did and found it chamomile.

“I can do nothing for you until something more drastic happens. I do not wish you ill, and it is not to say I don't believe you, but I can do nothing for you now.” She rested a hand on Vince's dejected shoulders.

“Thanks,” he said lowly.

 

Howard smiled into the mirror. He was sweating, the muscles of his face were taut.

“You know, Charles Mingus was working on a follow-up to _The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady? The Sinner Lady and the Tromboner.”_ He laughed thinly.

“No, you don't laugh,” Half-Jack said, “you play the straight man, remember? I get the laughs, and I laugh at you.”

“So does everybody else,” Howard murmured. The dummy laughed.

“See? Now _that's_ funny!”

Howard sighed. “If you say so.”

“Whatsa matter? Your girlfriend got you down?”

“He's not my—Vince is of no consequence. Three more hours, then we go to bed.”

“Ooooh, you're so suave.” Half-Jack waggled his jaw. “I bet you say that to all the goils, ah-oh, ah-oh.”

Howard's arm hurt. He wanted to stop, wanted so badly to rest, but he wasn't good yet. People laughed, but they also pitied him. He didn't want them to pity him. He didn't want to be pitiful anymore.

“Listen,” Half-Jack said, “I can tell by that dippy little look on your face that you're having second thoughts.”

The dummy was right, of course. The dummy was always right. It was an odd sort of psychotherapy, allowed him to air things he would never be able to otherwise. But the horrible thing was that he didn't say some things aloud because—

“Because you don't wanna hurt feelings, am I correct?” Half-Jack said, waggling an invisible cigar.

“Spot on,” Howard said.

It was a condition he'd read about: spontaneous schizophrenia. Happened to ventriloquists sometimes. The dummy would say something the ventriloquist had never intended to say. Of course, having a little chattering id on one's knee didn't do a whole lot for privacy.

“Well fuck dat noise,” Half-Jack said, lowering his eyelids, “and fuck thinking all the time. All it does is make you unhappy.”

Howard tried to rally. “That's not true—”

“Oh yeah? When's the last time you had a happy thought?”

Howard swallowed. “Last night. I was thinking—”

“ _They like me, they really like me_ '.” Half-Jack chucked him under the chin. _I'm doing this_ , Howard reminded himself, _I can stop whenever I want_.

“Listen, we're good friends. So I'm telling you this as a friend. That other guy—”

Half-Jack knew his name. Howard knew his name. There was no point in making himself say it aloud.

“Vince.”

“Right, Vincey.” Half-Jack gestured. “He's jealous. He don't want the best for you. You may have to cut him off.”

Howard blinked. “But...”

“Hey, hey, hey, the only butts in here should be yours 'n mine.”

“But, I don't...I don't really want to,” Howard explained. Tears were pricking his eyes. Why was he upset? He wasn't really going to leave Vince.

“But you'll have to. You know he thinks you're a drag. A doorstop. An albatross around that little toothpick neck of his.”

Vince was just...abrasive, after all. They both were. They didn't really mean it. And anyway, how was Vince to know how deeply some of the barbs hurt him? He wouldn't leave over a silly thing like that.

“And he gets in the way of practice,” Half-Jack went on, “showing you those scribbles. Making you listen to music you hate.”

“I do the same to him,” Howard said quietly.

He wouldn't leave Vince.

“Yeah, but yours is better isn't it? And it's not like you do impressions of him to your other friends.”

“I don't have any other friends.”

It was true, he would not leave the only friend he had in the world. The notion was insane.

“He'll probably just up and leave you one day anyway. Like that time with the band...or that time in the desert...the list goes on, really.”

Yes, Vince was probably going to leave him. Howard swallowed past the lump in his throat. It made perfect sense. All for the best, really. They were holding each other back. Vince could get on with the people he knew better and Howard could...

“Don't know why he took up with you in the first place. Laughs? You're pretty funny at a distance.”

Howard could...

“Anyway, now you can stop pretending you like each other.”

Howard sighed. “I guess you're right.”

“Of course I'm right.


	5. Chapter 5

Vince took a breath to nerve himself. He had been standing in front of the door for some time, eavesdropping. If you couldn't see them, you would have thought the voices were coming from two different people. Vince shivered. He had to get that thing away from Howard, even if it meant grabbing it by its little stick-legs and bashing it headfirst against a wall.

He touched the doorhandles and it swung open a fraction.

“—course I'm right.”

Vince shuddered again. The Howard-but-not voice was sleazy and insinuating. He could feel those sofboiled eyes on him already. God, Howard, why couldn't it have been something slightly less creepy, like a voodoo doll?

“Hi,” Howard said to the floor. He had become more subdued over the past few days, as if all he was had been draining into the dummy, which hopped and skipped animatedly even when Howard wasn't making him talk.

“Who invited you, hot stuff?” Half-Jack lowered its lids, leering at Vince.

“I live here.” Vince kicked himself for feeling the need to explain himself to a dummy. “Howard, can we talk?”

“Tolllld ya.”

Vince glared at the dummy. “Alone.”

Howard made no move. “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

Vince cleared his throat. “I meant without _him_.”

“He just wants to get you alone so's he can evickskerate ya.”

“I'm fine,” Howard said, though whom was the intended target of the statement was unclear.

Vince sighed, winding a hand through his own hair. “I can't do this anymore.

Howard didn't react.

“I mean, it's not as if you're not great,” Vince said, hastily backing up, “but this just isn't working out.”

“Alright.”

“I mean, I'm glad you're having fun, but you can't spend the rest of your life doing this, can you?”

“I guess not.”

“I hate to have to pull this card. But I'm just so tired, Howard.”

“So am I,” Howard said, sounding defeated.

Vince, on the other hand, was ecstatic. _So you're dumping the dummy, c'mon Howard, say it!_

Howard shifted and cleared his throat.

“Would you?” he said to the dummy.

And Vince's stomach dropped.

“We've been thinkin' it over,” Half-Jack said, “and you just ain't pullin' your weight around here.”

Vince was too numb to retort. He looked at Howard, who looked off to the side as if he wasn't even present. His mouth didn't even seem to move at all.

“You should prolly cut and run while the runnin's good, sweet cheeks. Go find a nice man with a fancy cigar to take care of you. You can shop your heart out...what little there is of it.”

“Howard,” Vince said shakily.

“Ha-whaaaaad,” the dummy mocked. “don't pretend you care, he's not rolled in glitter or dusted with MDMA, why would you give a shit? You were fine when he was nothing, now that he's getting famous you're turning green. You won't stop until you drag him back down to your level, will you? You pretend you care but you're laughing at him behind his back.”

And the b in _back_ came out perfect, nice and crisp and clear and Howard's mouth didn't once move.

“Fuck you,” Vince said, half angry, half hurt. “Fuck you and your little white suit and your shoes and your stupid gangster accent!”

“See! See! He ain't denying it 'cause it's true!”

“It isn't true,” Vince snapped, “you just want to drive me away.” He looked past the dummy. “Howard,” he entreated, “you're my best mate, you've got to believe me. We've been friends forever.”

“Friends,” Howard echoed hollowly. He still wouldn't look at Vince.

“You can't let this wooden berk come between us.” Vince brought his hands together. “We can burn it. You and I. And then we can work on the band some more.”

“You mean let him do all the work while you dress like a disco peacock? Face it sister, you're old news.”

Vince growled. The age barb stung. “What, and ventriloquism is the watchword in entertainment for the next century? I'm going to wrench you off his arm myself and introduce you to the blender.”

The dummy rotated its head 360 degrees. Vince had to fix himself in place to keep from running away. When the dummy completed its circuit, it looked at Vince.

“I got a secret,” Half-Jack sniggered. Vince crossed his arms and tapped a cuban heel.

“You're a slut because you're boring.” The doll rolled its boiled-egg eyes madly, cackling with glee. It's ever-smiling mouth jabbered unceasingly, unmercifully. “You never fuck someone for more than a fortnight because you're afraid they'll find out there's not that much to you.”

Howard's adam's apple worked silently, his face glistened with tears.

“You're afraid they'll stop seeing you as cool and realize you're an idiot, so you break it off early. You tease them out, like a stripper. You're a fucking tease. And you're only clever enough to realize all this but not enough to do something about it.”

“Yeah,” Vince said, swabbing his face with a sleeve, “well, at least I can talk without someone's hand up my arse!”

And suddenly Vince was crying and it was so stupid but he was crying and he couldn't stop and he ran and he heard Howard call out behind him but he was running and he couldn't stop

 

Howard wiped his face. He had wanted to run after Vince, but then he hadn't. He had wanted to apologize, beg Vince to stay, but he wanted Vince to leave.

The dummy swiveled and winked at him. “There. Easy as pie.”

“Stop it,” Howard said. He was saying it to himself. He was saying it to the dummy.

“Stop? When I just freed you? How's about a little gratitude?”

“I want to be alone right now.”

The dummy sniggered. “You _are_ alone.”

“I want a rest.”

“Noooo, _no._ You need to practice.”

“I'm going to take you off my arm,” Howard said slowly, “then I'm going to go have a cup of tea and draw myself a nice, hot bath. Yes. I'm doing it.”

He didn't move.

“You're even more of a schmuck than I thought you were.”

Howard wanted to yell, interrupt, but found he could no longer wrest control of his vocal chords away while the dummy was talking. If he hadn't been so far beyond it, he would have been terrified.

“Go ahead, run after him. You know what will happen.”

Howard practically slammed the dummy down on the sofa, then reflexively dove to examine any damage he might have done. Then he remembered himself and made himself wrench away and start for the door.

And all the old insecurities came pouring in like water into a submarine with all hatches open. He made not five steps before he sank to his knees, sounding in despair. He wanted to form words, but couldn't.

“You see now? There's nothing you can do that I can't take away.”

Howard knelt on the floor. His head hung low, as he couldn't see his way to supporting it right now.

“You done?”

Howard nodded meekly.

“Then come here.”

Howard crossed the room on his knees, his arm was almost too heavy to lift. The burden lifted once he slipped his hands inside and found the levers. Then it was all like butter, too, too easy.

Half-Jack slapped him. “Good. Shutup from now on. I'll tell you when you're ready to talk.”


	6. Chapter 6

Ella looked up from the robot she was constructing from cutup tin cans and roller skates. She sighed and fished a raveled hanky from her sleeve.

“Blow it out, dear.”

Vince took the crusty thing and blew, not caring about the grime. Not caring about anything at all, in fact.

“The doll's got Howard,” Vince said, “it's got him strong. He didn't get violent, but he said such horrible...” He shuddered. “Please. _Please_ , you have to help me.”

Ella looked him up and down. “I guess I have to, huh?” She beckoned. “Come with me.”

Ella's trash house actually extended quite a ways. She had buttressed the walls with Christmas tree stands and tent poles. She took a seat in a rotting easy chair, Vince sat on the stained ottoman.

“Now,” she said in a motherly voice, “tell me 'bout the doll.”

Vince sniffed back snot. “Well, it's sort of dark. And its got a white suit and black shoes and black eyes.”

“How's it sound?”

“Well, it used to creak but then Howard oiled—”

“No, I mean how's its voice sound,” Ella said, “when your friend makes it move, does it sound like him?”

Vince swallowed. “No, _more lik' dis_.” His impression was not a patch on the original, but Ella's eyes widened all the same.

“Continue.”

“And it likes jazz. It likes all the same jazz Howard likes. Mingus and Parker and Davis—” God, did he really know all their names? Howard had really rubbed off on him over the years.

Ella looked very grave. “I was afraid of this. Your friend's got ahold of some bad juju.”

“I told 'im to stop eating at that taco truck.”

“No, I mean that doll's bad news. It was made by a man who ended his days alone. He was a genius who ended up pushing everyone away, even people who could've helped him. A craftsman comes through in his work. That man put some bad feelings into that doll, I tell you.”

Vince jumped up. “So the spirit of that dollmaker is haunting him?”

Ella shook her head.

Then she said the scariest thing Vince had heard since, “ _sorry, these only come in beige and taupe_.”

She said “It's not alive. It isn't moving on its own. Howard is doing it all. He's very talented, but troubled. The doll draws that out, it seeks out lost souls who feel they have no place in the world and exploits their insecurities. Howard isn't doing anything he wasn't already capable of doing.”

All the air wooshed out of Vince and he had to sit down.

“Now that it's got hold of him, the doll will work to drive everyone he loves away from him. In this case, it's a very short list. But once he's alone, it will keep working on him until he collapses.”

Vince said “no” very firmly and definitely.

“If we catch it in time, you might be able to save him.” She cocked her head. “Have you noticed anything different recently?”

Vince searched his head. “Well, up until now he's always had trouble with b's. Usually replaces it with a g sound, only now he can say b's perfectly without his mouth moving.”

“It's worse than I thought then, he's getting better at it.”

Ella reached into a bin bag beside her, fished something out, and handed it to Vince. “Here. This should help.”

“What is it? Liquid voodoo?”

“No,” Ella said, “Duke Ellington's ascot. I thought it best to help remind Howard of what he loved, and what he stands to lose.”

She caught Vince's look. “What?”

“How do you know about that?”

Ella looked to the side. Vince followed her gaze. A makeshift bookshelf made of breeze blocks and warped boards held a bunch of stained catalogs, old library books, and _Neckwear of the Greats_ , by Howard TJ Moon.

“I only get the books people throw away,” Ella said.

“I can't believe someone would pay money for that and then throw it away.”

“Its his own personal copy. Signed and everything.”

“ _Oh,”_ Vince said. And because he felt he had to, he picked it up.

“Situations like this are tricky. You can't just pull people out like they were marrows,” Ella said, “you've got to make them _want_ to come out. Remind them of what they would miss if it all went away.”

Vince was only half-listening. The inscription read:

_Dear Vince,_

_Happy Birthday_

_Love Howard_

It was dated two years ago.

“Right,” Vince murmured, “right.”

 

Howard sprawled on the floor of their bedroom. Naboo and Bollo were off gathering psilocybin on the surface of the moon. Funny. Howard would welcome the gruff little gnome's insults right now. At least they didn't hurt as much.

“—and I don't wanna tell you people, he's a little obsessive. I mean, he called _Vertigo_ a fun romp!”

Half-Jack had been talking for hours. He was hoarse now. That was how Howard thought of it. Half-Jack was hoarse. His own throat hurt merely in sympathy.

“There was this one broad, he cried all night into her fishpond until it turned to saltwater! At least...I hope it was crying...”

The front door opened so hard it hit the wall. Howard's gaze flickered up. It couldn't be...

“And then there was the time he almost got raped by a bunch of yetis—”

“Howard?”

Howard's mouth fell open a little. Half-Jack craned his neck to the door.

“Is dat the strippergram we ordered?”

Vince appeared at the crack in the door, hair fallen into his face, burgundy cloth in a twist around his throat. He looked, naturally, amazing.

“We don't want any,” Half-Jack called.

Vince shoved the door open. “I've had enough from you, bug-eyes. You're leaving this house in a bin bag!”

“Vince,” Howard said wearily, “don't.”

Vince turned on him with sudden viciousness. “Don't you even start with me! I'm wearing this manky antique for you, you sadsack git! Act a little grateful.”

Howard studied his neckwear puzzledly. “Vince...is that...”

“So, you can't get enough of me, hoochie-coochie pants,” Half-Jack laughed. “No one ever accused you of having good taste.”

“On my worst days I could pull better than you,” Vince snapped. Then, to Howard: “I went to see this shamaness. She kept going on about marrows and dukes, it was all a bit confusing, but I think I got the gist of it. I can help you.”

Howard blinked. Half-Jack said the next sentence so Howard didn't have to: “why the hell would you want to help him?”

Vince laughed. “If you think making fun of my sex life will put our friendship to an end, you don't know anything! He's been making fun of my taste in women for ages.”

The dummy cocked its head slyly. “And you do the same, huh?”

There was something in its voice Vince didn't like. Something knowing.

Panic bloomed slowly on Howard's face. He mouthed _'no'._

“You think it's funny he's been a virgin so long? Never had a single successful pull? Not as long as he's known you?”

Vince stared at the dummy. Pieces were beginning to slot together.

Howard stared at Vince.

“Even when you play wingman, he always falls over his own feet? He's never comfortable around anyone but you. And he always tries to get in on any sweet young thing you get for yourself? Don't you think it's funny how he only goes after women he can never have? It's almost like—”

“No!” Howard shouted suddenly, “no! No, no, _no_ , if anyone breaks this it's going to be me!”

He turned to Vince, eyes wild breathing hard. His free hand clenched and unclenched uncontrollably, and he was shaking. Vince wasn't sure if he should be scared  _for_ Howard or  _of_ Howard.

“I...” Howard cleared his throat, “I never...I never did it because...because...I was waiting.”

Vince swallowed. It felt like someone had been putting the squeeze on his vocal cords, now they let up.

“You were waiting,” he said with more calm than he felt.

Howard looked like a beaten dog. “I was waiting...for you.”

Vince blinked. He looked from Howard to the doll back to Howard again.

“That's it?” he asked incredulously, “that's it?”

Tears rolled silently down Howard's face.

“That's supposed to make me leave?” Vince thundered at the doll. “Do you even fucking know who you're talking to? I'm Vince Noir, I'm the great confuser, the not-so-latin lover, the androgyne from Andromeda! You think my best friend being in love with me is supposed to throw me off?”

Howard gaped, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. The doll did nothing, which looked very sinister.

Vince picked it up roughly, which made Howard wince.

“Get this through your wooden little head,” Vince growled into its ear, “we're a double act. A pop duo. Like Bowie and Jagger. Eno and Ferry. And last I checked, there wasn't room for a third.”

And, turning, Vince chucked it out the window. They both waiting anxiously until they heard the clatter of impact below. They relaxed visibly.

“Vince,” Howard said, “my god.”

“Yeah?” Vince said, and kissed him.

Howard clung to him like a drowning man to a life raft. It was so telling of Howard that, despite the fact that he had the height and potential of a good serial slasher, he would let someone like Vince tell him what to do.

Vince pulled away from the kiss and pressed their foreheads together.

“Done waiting?” he asked.

“For what?” Howard asked bemusedly. Vince smiled until the lightbulb went on in Howard's head. He was suddenly shy, pulling away as much as Vince would let him.

“Vince,” he said haltingly, “you sure you don't want to rethink this?”

“Look, if de-virginizing you is going to prevent you from taking up with a demonic dummy, I'm all for it,” Vince said.

Howard narrowed his eyes. “Wait, so you're flinging a sympathy-shag my way just to keep me from being possessed?”

“Well, it's either this or going back to fox-bumming.”

“I did not bum that fox,” Howard snapped. Anger made colour return to his cheeks. “And what makes you think I want to sleep with you after all that, huh?”

Vince pointedly brushed up against the rather large erection tenting his trousers.

Howard coughed. “Oh. Right. There is, erm, that.”

Vince smiled sweetly into his face and grabbed two handfuls of his arse.

“Look,” he said, “we can argue about it some more upstairs.”

And so they did.

 

Vince was worried that Howard might get up to go look for the dummy, so he made sure to exhaust him sexually. Even so, the next morning, Howard was already up and at breakfast when Vince dragged himself out of bed.

“It was gone when I went out and checked,' Howard said, voice carefully neutral. Vince nodded. He knew full well it was gone. He had personally disposed of it himself, with a sledgehammer. But it seemed best for now to let Howard think he was possessed. The psychological devastation on realizing he really could be that cruel would unseat Howard. Vince wondered if such plottiness meant that he was becoming the smart one. He shuddered. No, god no.

“Oh, here's your ascot back.” Howard shyly draped it over a chair. “figured you'd probably want to wash it.”

Vince lifted a shoulder. “Figured you'd want to keep it. Jazz memento, and all that.”

Howard looked at the ascot. “Vince...you're telling me that that's really Duke Ellington's ascot?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean I...we...with the Duke's necktie?”

“Oh what's he going to do?” Vince asked dryly, “come back and haunt us?”

Suddenly, and with violent ferocity, Vince started scatting and didn't stop until he choked on his toast.

Howard looked at him wide-eyed.

“I have never been so turned on,” he said.

Vince shook his head. “Get that scarf,you weirdo. We're going to see a Fitzherbert about a Duke.”

“Can it wait? Like, fifteen to twenty minutes?”

Vince sighed. “....I suppose so.”

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, in case you couldn't tell, this is/will be heavily inspired by the movie Magic. Wilbur the creepy shokeeper is Bob Fossil's creepy(er?) brother from the radio series.


End file.
